Walking into the art studio, Trent was feeling increasingly nervous. The art instructor seemed only more eager to have him model after hearing his concerns, and reassured him that he had nothing to be ashamed about and no reason to worry.Ascending the platform, he waited in a thin robe, sitting with his legs out in front of him as pupils trickled in with easels, palettes and pencils. Some even began to set up early and draw him as he sat.
For a moment he was elated. If some were beginning to draw already, perhaps he wouldn't have to change his pose, lest they be interrupted. His chest started to swell as he gleefully considered not having to undress, and he quickly returned to how he was so he would not hinder the progress of the present sketchers.
As eight o'clock approached, Trent began to feel more anxious. A clique of girls -it looked like a swim team, he thought- came in and set up their workstations in the front of the room.
Forgetting his attempts at stillness, he nervously adjusted the robe over his crotch. It had not been revealing anything before, so his fidgeting did him no good, but he felt more assured that his secret was well guarded.
The cheerful professor entered, the caboose of a long line of blossoming young artists, grinning widely and showing off her set of straight, brilliantly white teeth. However, upon glimpsing Trent still in his robe, her countenance changed to one of puzzlement and concern. Then, tilting her head back toward the wall, she read the clock above the door as not quite yet eight. Hey eyebrows unfurrowed, and she took back her wide exuberant smile. She turned to address her students, and clasping her hands together, began a short lecture. Trent was beginning to feel uncomfortable, fearing that she would start discussing him, but she did not. Instead, she simply stated that today was a workday, a day to focus on negative space and form, and to get started.
"Class has started now, Trent," she observed, "so you'll need to take off the robe." Trent viewed the swimmers from the corner of his eye and squirmed a little, but despite hesitation presently untied the belt and let the robe slip to the floor. Facing the wall as it dropped, he now turned to pose and face the class. As he adopted his pose, standing, as though preparing to throw a javelin, the sounds of scribbling and bristling of paintbrushes became audible.
Trent held his facial expression in stern concentration, but peering to the side he would catch glimpses of his teacher's face, buoyant and expectant. She was walking between pupils, commenting and pointing to picture and person alike. The pointing was what made him nervous. What was she pointing out to them?
The group of girls seemed to be professionally going about their business. He could hear no comments from them or anybody else about his body. Before class he worried about getting an erection, but those thoughts proved pointless. As nervous as he was, Little Trent wasn't going to be popping up today. Still, the thermostat had been turned up so he wouldn't be cold without any clothes on, and perhaps it had been made to be a bit warmer than necessary.
Trent didn't think he had ever been more aware of his genitals in his life. He had fixed this day in his mind for eight days now. He knew it was eight days exactly because when his friend asked him to model as a favor to her, she told him it would be in eight days. The countdown had been in the front of his mind ever since.
He even shaved the top of his pubic hair as a kind of distraction to the artists. He left his balls hairy, but above that the hair was completely gone. He would be fine if they only focused on his dick. His dick he had no problems with. True enough, it was a suitable distraction by itself. Soft in the hot room, it hung at about six inches and nicely plump. Still, despite his diversions and camouflage, someone noticed. It wasn't a girl from the clique, but a young man very nearby them, definitely within their earshot.
He seemed perplexed for a moment, as though unaware of how to handle the situation. Then, remembering how he had always dealt with questions, he timorously raised his hand to seek his professor's aid and counsel. Trent knew what the question was. So did the teacher. Seeing the raised hand, she quit her current student's side mid-critique and hopped merrily in her high heels over to the young man and eagerly bent down beside him with her hands on her knees an asked him what the question was.
Flummoxed for a moment at the notion that the professor was expecting him to ask it out loud, he hesitated for a while, then stammered in a whisper, "Does... does he have three testicles?"
Since he whispered, naturally everyone paid extra close attention to his query, and upon hearing it, every eye in the studio looked back to Trent to examine his balls. Hidden by the hair and shadow at first, closer inspection did indeed show a third, slightly smaller testicle behind the one on his right.
Nobody heard the professor saying 'yes,' or briefly explaining polyorchidism, or celebrating the gentleman's skills of observation, for every student was flickering his or her eyes from scrotum to sketch. Naive questions flitted through their heads. "Should I draw all three or just two? Would drawing the third one be rude?"
Most seemed to regain composure in a few minutes and return to their compositions, save one man who was two rows away and at just the right angle to spend the rest off the session staring. He gawked at what was in front of him, and his stunned expression also showed hints of awe and admiration. His friendly but nevertheless probing eyes unsettled Trent in a way. Granted, it wasn't a whole room of oglers as he suspected it would be, but even the one made him start to feel uncomfortable again.
All the same, he had to retain his look of stern concentration, focusing directly ahead. He just began to count in his mind. He tried to think about chairs and table lamps and breakfast cereals: anything but where he was and what he wasn't wearing and who noticed.
Finally, the chipper instructor announced a break. Trent was allowed to don the robe again and walk to the water fountain with the rest of the group. He went into the restroom and headed for the urinals, where he was soon accompanied by the staring man, who took the space next to his. Along with blatant peering, the man felt the need to become vocal. "I'm John," he said, and after a few more seconds of crotch-watching, "Just getting a better look."
With this, Trent finished and turned to him. "I would really appreciate it if you would leave."
John's expression changed smoothly from concern to concern. Shock, rejection, confusion, embarrassment, and then shameful humility were detectable one after the other as he seemed to realize only now that his behavior wasn't so appealing to Trent as it was to him. "I apologize," he articulated quickly before exiting the restroom and gathering his supplies. As Trent reentered the studio, he caw John carrying out an easel boasting remarkably good use of shadow and a close-up of his cock and balls. They were really quite expertly done, and as he passed by Trent on the way out, he said, "Sorry again, mate. Caught up in things. Nothing meant." And he turned and took his masterpiece away.